Chapter Six
As far as Evan was concerned, Miles’ agreement to do things his way was just a little too easy.
Sure, he’d strong-armed him, half-drunk and one hundred percent nasty-smelling, like an orchard gone bad, into Colin O’Connor’s jet, then dragged him to the marketing meeting that Reed regularly said was the worst day of his week, all while walking a delicate line between outright and only inferred blackmail.
And sure, he’d had to wake up at six this morning after a mostly sleepless night, tossing and turning and agonizing over what Miles had meant by kissing him.
And then he’d had to read the email Miles had clearly gotten wasted and then written, probably because he’d kissed him and didn’t know what to do about it.
But in between the not-very-imaginative and poorly written insults had been some insights into both Miles-the-Chef and Miles-the-Man.
After all, was something really insulting when it started with the playground taunt of “I really hate your face”?
Evan didn’t really think so.
Even if Evan had actually been offended by the email, he still would have used the material the same way. The sick look on Miles’ face this morning hadn’t just been the bad liquor talking; he’d clearly been overwrought with guilt and confused as hell.
Guilt, Evan thought with satisfaction as he swept into the Five Points kitchens the next morning, was the best fucking motivator in the whole world. Better than love or revenge or whatever petty shit those comic book villains were always preaching about.
They could keep their world domination via childhood insecurity. Evan was going to take guilt and shame right to the bank.
Lucy, the kitchen manager, called out good morning from her spot on the other side of the gigantic space, where she was probably writing up next week’s kitchen schedule.
Even if she hadn’t been, Evan still would have smiled big and waved.
As it was, he smiled extra big because it was a fucking fantastic morning.
His espresso had been the perfect blend of hot milk and bitter, rich coffee and he’d slept like a baby the night before. But most importantly, he’d finally fixed his problem.
“Hey.”
Evan looked up to see his fixed problem staring at him inscrutably.
“You look better,” Evan said judiciously. Now that Miles was no longer a thorn in his side, Evan was fine with being civil. Besides, Miles could hardly look worse than he’d looked yesterday. So his statement also had the bonus ring of truth.
“Actual sleep and no booze works wonders,” Miles pointed out.
There had been a tiny worried part of Evan that had been concerned that after a good night’s sleep, Miles might recant his agreement of the day before.
Or even worse, decide he wanted to talk about the two major events of the last forty-eight hours.
But when Miles stayed silent, Evan forged on with his plan.
“I’m going to suggest,” Evan said, “that we use the peanut butter dark chocolate cookie recipe as our first episode of the series. It’s a strong introduction to your point of view as a chef—your sort of high-end, low-end combo that you used with the strawberry raspberry tarts that went viral—and it’s a great introduction to basic concepts of baking, like creaming together butter and sugar and sifting dry ingredients. ”
Miles looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s not a bad idea.”
Evan couldn’t quite help the chiding look he shot Miles’ direction. He had a problem being a little smug after he knew he’d won, and this morning was no exception. “If you’d give me half a chance, you’d learn that I have more than a few of those.”
“I told you yesterday I’d listen,” Miles said, a grumpy expression crossing his face. But unlike the inscrutable, lofty frowns of earlier this week, this one was almost adorable. Like a pissed-off cat.
“We talked yesterday about you coming up with a list of higher concepts you thought would come across good on video.”
Miles pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his jeans and slid it across the counter. It was a sunny morning and the tall windows in the kitchen were all open, lightening his eyes and making them tougher for Evan to read. But if he had a guess, Miles looked the way Evan felt: smug.
Scanning the list, Evan had to admit that Miles had done a really good job. Which didn’t surprise him all that much, because he’d personally selected Miles for a reason. They’d gotten off to a bit of a bumpy start, but there was no reason everything couldn’t go smoothly from now on.
“This is good,” Evan said.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Evan glanced up, surprised at the hard, defensive edge to Miles’ voice.
“I know I haven’t shown it here, but I’m a professional,” Miles said and there it was again—the little thread of shame for the way he’d behaved earlier.
Evan couldn’t have planned it better if he’d orchestrated the whole damn thing. He wanted to break into a song and dance of victory.
“Of course you are.” Okay, if he sounded a little patronizing, then it was payback for, “I really hate your face.”
“Which of these would be good for the next episode in the series?” Evan continued.
“They’re actually in order—or the order I’d suggest they be in,” Miles said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Thoughtful,” Evan said approvingly. “Next up is chocolate croissants?”
Miles nodded. “And even better, last night I thought of an even better way we can learn to cooperate.”
Later, Evan would come to think of this moment as the one where he stumbled and fell over his own ego.
“You’re teaching me all about marketing,” Miles said, oh-so-innocently—so innocently that Evan should have realized what was coming, but he was too busy celebrating such an easy win.
He should have known that anything too easy to believe was just that—too damn easy.
“And so I thought I could teach you how to bake. Starting with these recipes. You want me to teach an average person. I figure,” Miles said, flashing another one of those charming smiles that made the housewives across America fall in love with him, “you’re about as average as it gets. ”
Evan didn’t know whether to be pissed off or very reluctantly admiring over the way he’d just been out-maneuvered. It was almost a masterstroke of genius, and from the lack of smugness emanating from Mr. Ego, it was hard to tell if he even realized he’d struck gold.
As far as Evan was concerned, that was the worst part of all. If you were going to meet Evan on a field of victory and snatch it out from under him, then you’d better be damn aware you’d done it.
“Average?” Evan asked, definitely conscious of how his voice crept up at the end of the word.
“If you want me to teach anyone, then I sure as hell better be able to teach you,” Miles said. And suddenly, there was just a flash of the egotistical chef Evan had come to know.
Evan had never failed at anything in his life. He definitely wasn’t about to start now.
“Sure,” he said breezily. “I’m sure you can teach me.”
Evan had fully expected another kitchen session observing Miles and taking notes. He hadn’t anticipated touching anything—unless it riled Miles up again—and so he’d worn one of his favorite bow ties, a beautiful summer-blue plaid.
The last thing he expected was Miles to take a few steps closer, and reach up, resting one of those slim, capable hands on his shoulder, then edge towards his throat.
Evan might have worried Miles was finally going to strangle him, except those fingers were hesitant but sure of their destination, which was his bow tie.
“This needs to go,” Miles said, and Evan wasn’t sure he imagined it, but his voice seemed lower, almost gravelly.
Earthy. Evan might have imagined it was sexual, but he couldn’t quite reconcile the Miles who wrote, “I really hate your face,” and had kissed him like he was attacking him, to someone who might be sexually interested in him. It didn’t compute.
And yet here Miles was, fingers capably and nimbly undoing his bow tie and gracefully tugging it out of his collar.
He still couldn’t seem to form words—maybe that was the sheer shock of Miles choosing to touch him, maybe it was that his actions fulfilled so much of what Evan had daydreamed about before they’d ever met—and he stood in silence as Miles thumbed open one collar button and the next, with efficient movements.
If Evan hadn’t had sexual fantasies about Miles’ hands before now, he definitely was going to now.
Miles Costa was undressing him.
It seemed too unreal to be actually happening, but Evan could feel the floor under his feet, and the brush of Miles’ breath on the skin he’d exposed.
“There,” Miles said softly, and Evan swore his voice wobbled for a second. “Much better.”
“I thought it was the khakis you didn’t like.” Evan knew only the most shocking event would have forced him to refer to the email and the things Miles had said to him. He figured his slip was pretty justified, considering what had just happened.
“They’re distracting,” Miles said, but instead of continuing that line of thought, he turned away and headed towards the supply pantry, leaving Evan confused and sort of bereft. He wondered that if Miles kissed him again, if it would still be so angry.
He didn’t think it would be.
When Miles returned, he was carrying an apron, which he handed to Evan. “You don’t wear one of these,” Evan said skeptically. It turned out he was far more interested in Miles undressing him than encouraging him to put more clothes on. And that was definitely a problem.
Miles gestured to his worn t-shirt and jeans. “Besides,” he added, “I’m the professional, remember? I’m teaching you.”
Evan shouldn’t have found anything endearing about Miles bringing up one of their main conflicts, but there was a self-conscious, almost wry, edge to his voice that made it obvious how embarrassed he was about the whole thing.